


Anything Worth Keeping

by hideyseek



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Absolution, Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Daddy Issues, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Mentioned Eames' Father, Mentioned Maurice Fischer, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Ownership, Semi-Public Sex, Thievery, Tuxedos, a smidgen of eames’ history bc it just sort of happened, eames also has a Weird Relationship with his dad i decided it, eames and robert are character foils change my mind, eames was an art forger and this is important, honestly this was delightful to write, it has been brought to my attention that i should also tag this, later made undubious, specifically sex in a coatroom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29455905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideyseek/pseuds/hideyseek
Summary: We’re not the same, Eames wants to say. We’re nothing alike. Isn’t it enough that Eames will spend the rest of the night reminding himself that things can be fake and valuable, real and worthless. Isn’t it enough that Eames can’t tell which one this is.// Eames and Robert have sex in a coatroom, among other things.
Relationships: Eames/Robert Fischer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12
Collections: Eames' Stupid Cupid 2021





	Anything Worth Keeping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [100dabbo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/100dabbo/gifts).



> big big BIG thanks to teacup for helping me work out my prompts and for modding this whole fest, and for 100dabbo for being so flexible with your prompting. i was really fond of “black tie”, and it made me have So Many Thoughts about robert and eames together -- i don't usually have big feelings about these lads but writing this fic sure changed that! twas very nice to hang out in this sandbox. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you like this result! i certainly had a good time putting it together even though it's mostly thinking and not mostly porn.
> 
> thanks also to  
> [@musingsofaretiredunicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musingsofaretiredunicorn/pseuds/musingsofaretiredunicorn) for knowing how clothes work and pointing out all the logistical inconsistencies in my porn. any remaining nonsense is my own doing.

Eames had just been jealous. 

The feeling of it rising up, him staring from the coat check at Robert Fischer in a tuxedo, dazzling and real. Eames’ hand in his pocket clenched around his totem until the edges dug into his palm. _My father accepts that I want to create for myself_ , Eames had lied, and Robert had believed him.

Not a cent lost in the dissolution of Fischer-Morrow, not a moment when the limelight had wandered away from him. An effortless, prodigal transition from the forgotten son to the darling of the environmentalist media. Not a moment of consequence after the inception. Not a change to his life but this: galas and charity balls and donor events for wind power instead of drilling, schmoozing in Los Angeles and Melbourne, London, Beijing, and Los Angeles again. 

Robert orbiting the center of the room every time, and the crowd orbiting Robert every night, concentric and convivial. And every night no matter the city, Eames on a night off from whatever extraction he’s shouldered his way onto, taking coats and passing tickets with his head down and his jaw clenched, attuned completely to Robert in the middle of the crowd, glittering and beautiful and effortlessly happy. 

And so, when Fischer comes back with his crumpled paper ticket, Eames pulls him into the coat check and kisses him like he’s meeting a dare from himself, taking something just to prove he can. (Just to see how little he can leave in return without being caught.) Fischer’s mouth on his, and with it some piece of the sparkle, the happiness, the unconcerned relief of being tricked into forgiveness. How easy that must be to wear. How easy to put back on, to remember. 

And Eames had pressed up behind Fischer, and Fischer had let him, somehow, until they were behind the second rack of coats. There, with Fischer’s forearm pressed against the wall, his head dropped low under the stiff line of his shoulders. Eames’ right hand reaches around to get at Fischer’s cock and Fischer groans with it. Eames’ left hand finds his totem in his pocket, turns it over and over and over. 

Fischer’s cummerbund is shoved up and his shirt crumpled under Eames’ forearm. Fischer’s slacks pooling against the scrubby carpet, boxers caught mid-thigh and his shirt-tails damp, blotching translucent with precome. Eames’ teeth set at the juncture of Fischer’s neck, satin bow tie brushing his chin every time Fischer rocks into Eames’ fist. 

Eames rubs his thumb against the head of Fischer’s cock again and again and again. Until Fischer is slumped and shivering against him and coming, panting quietly against the back of Eames’ ear. The weight of his head tipped back on Eames’ shoulder. His hips jolting a little in the aftershocks, jostling Eames’ wrist. Eyes creased in pleasure. 

Eames pulls his hand away, wipes it on the closest coat. Either Fischer doesn’t see it, or Fischer doesn’t care. 

His father had died without a spare thought for his son. Fischer Junior had been lied to, and he’d been stupid enough to believe it, and now he had the gall to be happy, to feel _good_. The lucky bastard. It was simply unfair.

 _Unfair_ was a child’s complaint, the one howled back at fathers who left for trains and planes to Paris, New York, London. Sharp clean dark suits and glinting cufflinks. A Rolodex full of sharp-edged, off-white business cards with smallcaps under the titles that read, _Curator_. And underneath that still: _The Louvre, The Met, The Tate_. _Unfair_ was for fathers who remarried overseas to women who could look at art and know if it was authentic. To women that made his father beam and say, his arm around her shoulder, _This is the real thing, Eamesie_.

In one of his safe houses, Eames has a folder of newspaper cutouts from his pre-dreamshare successes. Every “returned” painting, every piece “presented for display,” every “rediscovered” notebook, filled with flawed parts of famous men. Patrons loved to see the humanity behind the greatness. _My father accepts that I want to create for myself, not follow in his footsteps_ , Eames told himself, all those years.

The front counter bell goes and Eames moves away, and just walks toward the counter. He doesn’t know if Fischer watches. He can’t make himself look back.

The pad of his thumb feels strangely sensitive when he takes the paper ticket, when he rips it in half. When he goes to drop both halves into his little jar, he has to flick the pieces from his still-tacky fingertips. Fischer’s fault, again. He uses his other hand to sort through the coats, and it makes him awkward.

“Fuck me,” Fischer hisses, when Eames goes back. He’s sagged back against the wall, but he presses forward when Eames approaches. His voice is thin from anticipation and nothing else. “Or, or. Or, let me—” His hand moves against Eames’ crotch. Like the handjob hadn’t been enough. Like it hadn’t been enough to come in his Versace trousers, shaking apart with his back trapped against Eames’ chest, Eames’ weight heavy against him, Eames’ breathing closer than the diluted sounds of the party continuing outside. Like he needs Eames to experience it too. 

_We’re not the same_ , Eames wants to say. _We’re nothing alike._ Isn’t it enough that Eames is unbearably hard. That Eames will spend the rest of the night reminding himself that things can be fake and valuable, real and worthless. Isn’t it enough that Eames can’t tell which one this is. Fischer tilts his head and Eames turns his cheek, leaves Fischer mouthing at his jaw.

Fischer goes to his knees instead. Mouth slick and breathing hard through his nose, hands fumbling against Eames’ fly. He makes this awful little delighted hum when he discovers Eames isn’t wearing pants. Robert is a different person, with his father’s absolution. 

He’s a different person again, with his mouth on Eames’ cock. Every shred of control that he hadn’t relinquished in the face of kidnapping laid bare now in front of Eames. He pulls back and surges forward, and Eames’ thinking is abruptly cut short by the sensation. Something about transformation. Something about being the same person no matter what he looks like. Robert’s head bobs, and Eames’ fingers clench down in hair exactly the same cut and length it had been on the plane.

Eames looks down and Robert is looking at him. Eames has to look away again, his mind full of Robert’s hollowed-out cheeks, his watering eyes. The shape of his mouth when he pulls off for a moment, gasping, before Eames shoves back in. Robert’s hands flex against Eames’ hips, cold and grasping through the fabric. 

The sounds of merriment filter through the coat check doorway, through rows upon rows of hanging overcoats, and it doesn’t feel exactly _fair_ , yet. But Robert bites down on a moan when Eames yanks him closer, and it feels like something close to justice being served. They’ve hardly started and Eames already wants to know if they’re going to do this again.

Robert gets his hands under Eames’ untucked shirt, palms broad against the fabric of the undershirt Eames bought in a ten-pack for six pounds. Eames hisses when he pinches at a nipple and thinks again: This isn’t letting him have anything. This isn’t anything worth _keeping,_ but it’s real, real, real. 

Eames doesn’t own a shred of the rest of his clothing. Not waistcoat nor bowtie, not dress slacks or dinner jacket or the white starch-pressed shirt. All of it was paid for by aliases and patrons. His cummerbund belongs to Robert, technically. 

Robert hooks his hands into Eames’ belt loops, drags him in. Eames’ open belt buckle jangling against Robert’s rings. Silver, silver, gold. The signet on his thumb like a modern family crest, a smear of come on the side of it, and Eames watches Robert lick it away. So fucking _dirty_. Eames grunts as much, hands pressing bruises into Robert’s shoulders to match the ones Robert is leaving on his hips. _So fucking—_ And then he comes. 

“There you are,” says Robert afterward. He’s standing again, eye to eye with Eames. He sounds unfamiliar through the roaring in Eames’ ears. “There you are,” he says again, quietly.

Eames isn’t shaking badly, and he feels something approaching good. Eames is putting a lot of effort into not shaking, a lot of effort into remembering to feel _good_. His fingertips tingle slightly, something gentle and painful sparking up and down the line of his thighs, his calves. He’s breathing hard, shoulders twitching. But his breath is coming easier now, after all. Something in him got shaken loose.

Robert purses his lips. From up close, his eyes are pale and off-putting. “I think I’ve dreamed about you,” he announces. His mouth is beautiful still, soft and threatening. 

Eames is too professional to flinch. But even so, he takes a moment to trace his finger down Robert’s jaw. A moment to put the pleasantness carefully back into his voice, to dust it with nonchalance. “Have you?” 

“Something like it.” Dismissive. He’s looking at Eames through his eyelashes somehow, fiddling with a shirtsleeve.

“Round two?” asks Eames, and it comes out rough, trapped and desperate in the back of his throat. Robert’s mouth twists for an instant. This makes Eames realize he’d been smiling, all this time. Or right on the edge of smiling, mouth broad and forehead smooth.

“I think this is yours,” Robert says instead, shaking his head. His fingers are pinched around something small and glinting. He twists it to look at it from another angle, and it goes dull. 

Eames lets Robert nudge his hand into his pocket, feels the small weight drop down to press against his thigh. It’s colder than he expects, unheated by Robert’s hands. Robert’s stomach brushes Eames’. A false intimacy that nonetheless exists.

Robert kisses him first, this time, and it’s like a caress. He doesn’t ask, just sets his mouth against Eames’. Precise, unhesitant. Eyes closed, it catches Eames off-guard, wrong-footed, split open and prime for the taking. With Robert’s mouth sweet and possessive on his, Eames remembers: At the party, one of the attendees had called him _Rob_. 

It’s firm and warm, and Robert’s hand on the back of his neck still smells like sex and sweat. That soft brush of his warm palm, so gentle. So fucking gentle. Eames kisses Robert back, and Robert pulls away first.

They look at each other for a moment, surely too close to be sizing each other up. The hum of the party is a roar in the back of Eames’ head.

“Alright,” says Robert, when nothing else happens. His lips glisten, spit-slick. He draws the back of his hand across his mouth, and then they don’t. “Where’s my coat?”

Eames hunts it down, then watches Robert slide into it, the cuff of one white sleeve flapping open. Eames watches him button his coat over his tie, smooth them both back down again. Robert glances briefly out the front of the coat check, and when the coast is clear, Eames watches him leave, turning left to rejoin the party. His footsteps are swallowed by the noise of the crowd.

In a minute, Eames is alone again with the coats. It’s like it never happened. Except it happened. He puts his left hand into his pocket, and pulls out lint, a cufflink that doesn’t belong to him. 

From outside the room he can hear the sounds of the party disbanding, Fischer’s voice rising momentarily above the rest and then disappearing into the muddle. The clear, brittle sound of glasses colliding as they’re gathered up, a discordant toast. _To the end of the night_ , Eames thinks, and feels his mouth twist without his permission.

There will be time later, to make a new totem, to reassess. His wrist aches, and he remembers how it happened, every moment through to the present. This is the real thing.

In a moment, the crowd will arrive, jostling to get their coats, to move on to the next event. Eames fiddles at his left sleeve until the cufflink comes off, and replaces it. He tugs at his sleeves until they’re an even white stripe against his jacket, and the cufflinks clink against the countertop: one of his, one of Robert’s.

**Author's Note:**

> if you also have Thoughts and Feelings about robeames, come yell with me on tumblr  
> [@hideyseek](https://hideyseek.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
